


Mercurial Truths

by Vrunka



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Canon Compliant, M/M, Major Spoilers, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28206168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: When Ceolbert puffs his chest out, and squares his shoulders and tells Ivarr that he isn’t scared of him, well that’s a lie. A harmless thing. Ceolbert is young, if Ivarr were to break him, his blood would be thick and sticky and green like a sapling’s. Ivarr admires the challenge in that, admires that the kid has the stones to lie to him about being scared, even if it is a lie.
Relationships: Ivarr/Ceolbert
Comments: 5
Kudos: 40





	Mercurial Truths

**Author's Note:**

> A reiteration of the warnings: this fic is major spoilers for the Shropshire arc. This is not a fix it. There is age gap, it is sort of glossed over in the fic. If that sort of thing is not your jam, click back.

There are lies they tell each other.

Easy little things.

When Ceolbert puffs his chest out, and squares his shoulders and tells Ivarr that he isn’t scared of him, well that’s a lie. A harmless thing. Ceolbert is young, if Ivarr were to break him, his blood would be thick and sticky and green like a sapling’s. Ivarr admires the challenge in that, admires that the kid has the stones to lie to him about being scared, even if it is a lie.

“I know I’m not who you wanted,” Ivarr tells him, bracing a hand on that stiff shoulder, pressing down until the muscle relaxes. “You’d rather your Eivor here, guiding you.”

“That’s not—,” Ceolbert flushes and oh there’s another one, a lie, bright and simmering off of Ceolbert’s tongue. “I mean—He has more important...duties to-to attend to,” he says. His voice is reedy, petulant. False.

But it’s harmless.

Ivarr grins, he knows the way it tugs his scar, the feral twist of his lips. He digs his fingers into the furs around Ceolbert’s neck. “Of course,” he says. “Escort duty is reserved for us useless sacks of shit.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know you didn’t. I’d have gutted you already if I thought you did,” Ivarr says. A chuckle at the end, the upswing of it in his words. There is no lie to the part Ivarr plays, the die cast by his destiny. He knows his role, embraces it fully.

Ceolbert eyes him, wary, lip caught beneath the even white line of his upper teeth. Ivarr wonders if this is how the boy will break, father’s orders be damned. He is pleasantly surprised when Ceolbert seems to shrug it off, settles himself more firmly on his horse, tuts his tongue to get the beast moving.

“We have a long ride to Quatford,” Ceolbert says, tossed carelessly over his shoulder. Aloof, like he doesn’t care.

A long ride, indeed. Plenty of time to break that lie down, flush the truth out like prey from a bush.

Ivarr grins, clicks his tongue to get his own steed moving. “As you say, little Aetheling.”

**

It’s the little lies—

“You do know how to cook, don’t you?”

“No,” Ivarr says, letting his fingers trail through the bloodstained feathers of the bird Ceolbert brought down on their second night on the road. “I’d eat the thing raw.”

Ceolbert huffs, mouth going downturned and tight. Ivarr can see the imagination flickering behind his eyes; the thought of Ivarr with blood dripping from his chin maybe, staining his teeth, and Ivarr grins expecting Ceolbert to flinch.

“You’re a liar,” Ceolbert says instead. “You just don’t want to cook it.” He presses his tongue to the corner of his mouth, a distracting little flash of pink that Ivarr finds his eyes following despite himself.

“I’m—,” Ivarr’s lips move over the word before his brain catches up with the proceedings. His voice trips, hitching at the top of his throat. He clears it, awkward, and looks away from Ceolbert’s triumphant little grin. “I’m not going to cook your shitty little game bird. Hardly any meat on it,” Ivarr says.

“You’re just mad you didn’t see it first,” Ceolbert says. Something dangerously close to a tease in his tone. A jest or a game, like maybe he really isn’t scared by Ivarr. Not the way he should be.

**

And it keeps happening.

The journey from Ravensthorpe to Quartford takes three days at least, with hard riding, with minimal stops. They are in a hurry, but not a rush, and the trip is shaping up to be more like a week. Frequent stops, Ceolbert constantly distracted, hunting or fishing.

Ivarr supposes he should probably stop him from slowing them down further. He’s supposed to be the responsible one. The thought alone is enough to make him shiver and he’s sure, miles away Ubba is probably feeling the same phantom itch. A bolt of cold down his spine. Ivarr would never, ever, particularly consider himself responsible.

So he doesn’t stop Ceolbert when Ceolbert sees a stream from his horse and says “Can we?” And he doesn’t stop him when he brings his bedroll down and spreads it under a copse of trees and says, “I know it’s early, but no sense in pushing the horses further.”

It’s a flimsy excuse, it would take little for Ivarr to jab it full of holes, but Ivarr doesn’t care to.

He’s more concerned with how unconcerned Ceolbert seems to be. It’s the boy’s destiny they’re riding toward. Ceolbert’s shiny new throne. Ivarr’s long awaited revenge. Fates interwoven, traced over and over one another. A knot drawn by the Celts to adorn their shields. Over and over.

“Aren’t you worried,” Ivarr asks. Night four on the road and they’ve found some Roman ruins to camp in. Sightless Goddesses, stone-faced and cold.

Ceolbert looks up from the fire he had been coaxing to life. There’s a small satchel of fish beside his knee, a few small trout he had dragged up from the stream earlier in the day. “Worried about what,” he asks.

“That we won’t make it in time?”

“If they manage to negotiate peace without us, I should think it would be a blessing, not a curse.”

“You won’t get peace with Rhodri,” Ivarr says. “Believe me.”

“Your men have his brother still, do they not? Family is a tricky thing. People do things for family. Things they wouldn’t normally. You’ve done things for your family. Things maybe you wouldn’t have.”

“You almost sounded wise there, for a second. If you mean Aella—,”

“I didn’t.” Ceolbert swallows. He slits open a belly of one of the fish, it smells like pond water, thick and brackish. “I just meant that...well my father overthrew a king for me. Helped you and your people betray someone who trusted us. And he did it for me. People can surprise you, that’s all.”

“I’ve been around a lot longer than you have, little Aetheling. I’ve seen a lot shit. People aren’t all that surprising. Not after you’ve seen as much as I have.”

Ceolbert’s eyes narrow, squinting across the fire. The golden, shimmering heat of it throws sharp shadows across Ceolbert’s face. Ivarr can’t parse the expression exactly, but there’s something almost pitying in it that he just cannot stand.

“What,” he says. Making it sharp enough to cut, putting the effort behind the hiss of it.

Ceolbert swallows again. His throat bobbing, shadows dancing and flickering along his jaw. The pity leaves, replaced by something else, something a little colder. It’s not fear, more like loathing, but Ivarr can work with that too.

“Nothing,” Ceolbert says. “It’s nothing.”

“You going to share that fish,” Ivarr asks. Gruff. Crossing his arms. He goes for intimidating, knows he hits the mark square dead in the center, but for some reason that makes Ceolbert grin. Lightens some of the heaviness that had seemed to settle in the younger man’s shoulders.

“Of course,” Ceolbert says. “There’s plenty. Don’t suppose you’d be interested in helping me cook it?”

“In your fucking dreams, little Aetheling.”

Ceolbert bites his lip, nose scrunching as he nods. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Because people don’t stray from their nature. I told you.” Ceolbert opens his mouth, like he’s got an argument, but Ivarr cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “I’m taking a nap,” he says. “Wake me when the food is ready, huh?”

Ceolbert huffs a sigh, dramatic, the kid could be taking lessons from Ubba with how world-weary he sounds. Ivarr squishes down the fondness he feels at the thought. There’s no place for it, no precedent.

He doesn’t need to like Ceolbert, weedy little milksop that he is. He doesn’t need to and he doesn’t plan to.

And it’s a lie, but it’s a small one, so it’ll hardly matter, in the end.

**

He wakes up to the smell of the fish burning and the moon hanging high in the sky and Ceolbert nowhere to be seen.

A panic Ivarr will never admit to thrums to life within his ribs. Winds tight tight tight around his heart. He slides to a crouch, gathering his legs under him in one smooth motion. It’s an easy distance to cross to the little fire, moving soundless as a shadow across the small space of their makeshift camp. The fish is done for, charred and blackened.

No signs of a struggle though. No shifted dirt, no scuffs or stains. Ivarr tips his head. Poised like a cat, like a beast, he listens to the sounds of the night around him.

There is a noise, from further in the ruins. Light and faint, but carried on an unfelt breeze. Rumbling off the stone, echoed off the frozen, sculpted faces.

Ivarr flips his dagger from his belt. Silent and quick, like liquid, he heads into the ruins. The tall stone archways provide ample cover as he slips closer and closer to the source of the noise. The huffing, shaky breathing. The muttering of a single word.

Ivarr should recognize it for what it is far faster than he does. The only reason he has for why he doesn’t is because the whole damn thing is so unexpected.

He had expected to find Ceolbert kidnapped, tied up and gagged perhaps, stolen by some wayward group of bandits.

What he does not expect to find is Ceolbert with his trousers down around his knees, slumped down in the dirt, back pressed against one of the ancient Roman monoliths as he jerks off. Hand around his cock, head tipped back. “Please, please, please,” falling heavily from his lips.

It is maybe the last scene Ivarr expects to walk into. So much for not being surprised by people. So much for killing off that lingering ember of affection that’s been growing in him since Ledecestre.

Ivarr clears his throat and Ceolbert snaps to attention. His head makes a dull thud when he flinches back into the column he is leaning against. An audible thunk that Ivarr can feel in his own teeth.

“Ivarr,” he says, scrambling to jam himself away and surge upwards onto his knees all at once. It isn’t graceful, not in the least. A picture of fumbling innocence. “This isn’t—It’s not what it looks like!”

“It isn’t?”

Ceolbert licks his lips. His face is pink, washed out in the silvery light of the moon. Blushing from embarrassment, from arousal? Impossible to tell which. “N-no,” he says. Voice catching, cracking over a stutter.

Ivarr twirls his dagger across his knuckles. Watches the way Ceolbert watches the quicksilver flash of it. He can at least put the boy out of his misery, same way he would a fawn or a rabbit, something small and squirming and trapped. “Well,” he says, “it looks like I interrupted you before you even got to the good part.”

“You—,”

“Hey, there’s no shame in it. Just the next time you sneak off to play with your cock, tell me. Hmm? I thought there was a wounded animal out here; came to end its suffering.”

“That’s...morbid.”

Ivarr smiles and Ceolbert doesn’t recoil. His eyelids flutter, his fingers curl into the dirt. It isn’t fear, not discomfort the way Ivarr expects it. The realization slams into Ivarr like a wave, takes him in the knees, a shiver that runs from the balls of his feet up to somewhere around his middle. 

Ceolbert had been thinking about a Viking—“Please, please,” still echoes in Ivarr’s ears, breathy and begging, pitched in that trembling tenor—and while Ivarr knows it wasn’t him that he had been thinking about, the scar, the quick smile, the brash nature, it’s all just almost close enough. Ivarr thinks maybe the kid’s stupid Saxon head is just screwed on wrong; that he sees Ivarr and flushes like it is Eivor there before him.

But bodies are weird like that. Ivarr has seen all sorts of things the body can do when pressured with embarrassment or the tip of a knife or a hot poker or the edge of his axe.

**

He makes that same joke to Ceolbert, out loud, on the road the next day. Watches what should be a sensible little chuckle splat flat across Ceolbert’s face.

“You’ve been sour all day,” Ivarr says. “Only trying to lighten the mood, little storm cloud.”

“I haven’t been—I’m not sour.”

A lie, Ivarr doesn’t know why he bothers keeping tally, but does. “You haven’t even asked to stop yet. We crossed two creeks already.”

“There were no fish in those creeks, Ivarr.”

Ivarr shrugs. “Keep the riding at this pace and we’ll be there by tomorrow night. Guess that’s a good thing.”

“You want so desperately to be rid of me,” Ceolbert says.

“Nah, but the sooner we’re there, the sooner it’s likely Eivor will show. Can’t say you’re not excited for that, eh?”

Ceolbert huffs. It shouldn’t be endearing, his little tantrum, the way it colors his ears, the tip of his nose. “I really don’t want to talk about this with you.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate, cuz I think we’re talking about it.”

“I told you, what you saw last night wasn’t-wasn’t what it looked like. You misunderstood.”

“And you call me a liar. You’re so desperate for it you’re sneaking off in the night. You could just ask him, you know? He probably wouldn’t even say no. I heard a rumor he uh—well I mean why else would he spare that piece of shit Leofrith.”

“Leofrith was not—he’s a good man, Ivarr. I learned a lot from him.”

“Like a father to you, I’m sure.”

“Could you not?”

“So you’ve got a thing for father figures, it happens.”

“That’s so—,”

“Inappropriate?”

“Off the mark. I looked up to him, is all. I look up to Eivor too. It’s not...unnatural like you make it sound.”

“Stroking your cock’s about the most natural thing in the world.”

“You’re disgusting, you know that? You’re just doing this to get a rise out of me.”

“Caught me. Red handed. Want me to apologize?”

Ceolbert rolls his eyes. Tips his head, tucking his chin beneath the cut of his cloak, hiding his lips from Ivarr. Hiding his grin. “No,” he says, voice muffled a little beneath the heavy material. “You wouldn’t really mean it, anyway. It’s not worth anything if you don’t mean it.”

“I could mean it, for you, maybe.”

That, at least, gets Ceolbert to pause. His heels digging into the sides of his mare sharply enough that she snorts, pulls up short. Ceolbert’s eyes are narrowed, brows angled, tense concentration in the lines of him. If he calls Ivarr a liar, Ivarr will just laugh and pretend to let him have the win.

Instead, Ceolbert says, “Okay. So say it and mean it.”

It startles a chuckle from Ivarr, a genuine bark of laughter from down in his chest. Calling his bluff had not been the outcome he had expected, he can’t pretend to be disappointed though. “Mm I think maybe not today, little Aetheling. But next time.”

**

Next time won’t come, Ivarr knows, so this too is a lie. He counts it in his head, their shared little lies. One for one, neck and neck, traded and traded and traded.

**

“Ivarr,” Ceolbert is saying. Later that night. Standing at the edge of the camp they made. The horses make a sound, a whinny in the dark, hooves shifting on gravel.

Ivarr blinks. Looks from the fire to Ceolbert and back. He hadn’t been sleeping, not quite. But he had been lost in thought. His scar itches and he does not raise a hand to scratch it. He sniffs. Ceolbert is still staring at him.

Breathing and staring. Hands fisted at his side.

In the firelight he is golden like those old dead roman gods. And it takes Ivarr a second to realize that he’s staring too, staring right back at Ceolbert. Neither of them speaking, just staring and staring, silent.

“What,” Ivarr asks. His voice comes out tougher than he really means. Craggy with the sleep he had almost found.

“Don’t make me repeat it,” Ceolbert says. “You heard me, didn’t you?”

‘Ivarr’, he thinks, is what he had heard. And some awful part of him thinks, ‘please, please, please,’—

Ivarr shakes his head. He leans back, stretches until his spine pops, relaxes his shoulders down into a slump. “Guess isn’t wasn’t that important, if it isn’t worth repeating.”

“You—You’re a very difficult man,” Ceolbert says.

“I’ve been told. You got more to add to that or can I get back to sleeping?”

“I said I was—I’m going to be away. F-for a moment and you—I wouldn’t want to worry you. Like last night.”

“Asking permission to take a piss?”

“Ivarr.”

“Okay, okay, Little Aetheling. Tell your dream Eivor that I say hello.”

“I don’t think about him when I...you know.”

“Pleasure yourself? What do you think about then, hm? Praying. Your great and immeasurable Lord get you off?”

“No! Look can you—I did what you asked. I’m telling you I’m going. Okay?” It must take a lot for him to admit that. He’s scarlet, head dipped down, staring at his feet. Obviously embarrassed.

It makes Ivarr shiver, nostalgic for a shame he has never felt. Jealous in the way Ceolbert drives his toe into the dirt, the flush of blood in his cheeks. The perfect picture of innocence. It makes something in Ivarr roll over, clench hot and tight in his belly. It makes him want to be a little bit mean, tease and press until Ceolbert snaps under the weight of it.

“You know,” Ivarr says, hears himself say. Mouth moving without any real thought behind it, running on its own. “If that’s really all you’re going off to do, you may as well just stay here. I’ll turn around, pretend I don’t hear anything untoward.”

“You wouldn’t really,” Ceolbert says. “I know you well enough to know that.”

“You think I’d have any interest in watching you?”

“Like you’d give up the opportunity to have something to shame me with later. Anything for that future barb of humiliation. You aren’t exactly a puzzle, Ivarr.”

“You make it sound cruel.”

“Isn’t it?”

Ivarr shrugs. He leans back on his hands. “Maybe a little,” he offers.

That lip is back, lodged between Ceolbert’s teeth. Little indents bitten into the plush, pink give of it. Ceolbert takes a step forward, another. He kneels at the edge of the small fire pit. His hands spread wide across his thighs. They look like they’re trembling, but maybe it’s just a trick of the flickering light.

There’s a hum in the air, like the gathering damp before the break of a storm. A prickling along Ivarr’s arms, down his spine. The touch of a ghost, raising the delicate hairs at the nape of his neck. This trembling, thrumming thing. He could break it so easily, shatter the delicate weave of it. Lie and tell Ceolbert he was only kidding.

He doesn’t do that.

Ceolbert meets his gaze like it is a challenge as he unlaces his breeches and Ivarr does not stop him.

It’s over almost quicker than Ivarr can really process. He doesn’t get a very good look at things, across the fire like that the view is a little obstructed. Not that he’s looking. Not really. This is just another step in Ceolbert’s development. He’s going to be an ealdorman, and Ivarr’s influence is going to make him a damn good one. And this is just—

Just part of that. Which is a pretty big lie, but it’s one he tells himself, so Ivarr figures maybe this one doesn’t count.

He can’t really see when Ceolbert gets himself fully freed, when he takes himself in hand. Ivarr doesn’t know—can’t fucking see—how big he is, how flushed and pink with blood his cock is. It must be already, maybe leaking a little across his fingers. Ceolbert’s shoulders sag. His left arm twitches, repetitive. Ivarr can see the way the muscle of his bicep bulges, the angle of his elbow.

“Fuck,” Ivarr hears himself say and Ceolbert curls inward with a cry, a high pitched mewling little whine and it’s—

It’s over.

It’s done.

“Christ,” Ivarr says. Ceolbert flinches, his brows pinching inward. “I mean—Christ.”

“I don’t—It would be better, maybe, if you don’t speak. Okay, Ivarr?” He sounds amazingly put together. Calm and frozen, like one of the lakes back North. Treacherous and deceptive and killing.

“You just...It was very fast.”

Even in the firelight Ceolbert’s blush is apparent. Stark and red in his cheeks, down his throat. “I knew you’d have an opinion.”

“Shouldn't have let me watch if you didn’t want me to share it,” Ivarr says, matter-of-factly. It’s true. Ceolbert should have known what he was inviting.

He did know what he was inviting, if the shaky grin he gives Ivarr is anything to go by. “By all means,” he says, “share away.”

“You’d make for a terrible Viking, little Aetheling. That prudish God of yours, how’s he have the time to worry about all you Christians keeping your hands out of your pants, hm? Doesn’t he have bigger things to keep watch of?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means getting it done faster isn’t going to make him notice you less, is it? Is that a tenet of good Christian sex no one ever bothered to tell me about?”

“There’s nothing good and Christian about this,” Ceolbert says. “Jerking off in the woods with a—a heathen.” He says the word thickly, layered with something that isn’t disgust. That isn’t fear. He isn’t scared. Hasn’t been for weeks, for months. Since the siege of Repton, maybe. Or before that even, lost among the streets of Ledecestre.

“It was just very fast. You’ll never satisfy a woman, coming that quickly.”

“My future wife and I will have to work that out, I suppose.”

“You should learn to enjoy it well before then.”

Ceolbert opens his mouth. Closes it. His hand is stroking down the length of his thigh, Ivarr can only just see the shiver of movement, nearly lost in the shimmering flames between them.

“Knowing my father,” Ceolbert says, settling back, looking away from Ivarr and off into the night, “he’ll have me married off within a year of naming me ealdorman. I’m sure there’s a political match out there to be made. A lineage to...secure.”

“You don’t sound thrilled.”

“It’s not like you don’t know why.”

“I’m sure Eivor would come to visit, if you extended him the royal invitation.”

Ceolbert rolls his eyes. They finish their motion and lock on Ivarr, catching Ivarr’s gaze and sticking. Ceolbert’s nose wrinkles. His lips twitch. Whatever it is he is thinking about saying, never leaves his throat. His lips move, soundless. Then he stands. The toe of his boot presses into the soft earth at the edge of their little fire pit. Scuffing the dirt and ash, disturbing the ring of stones.

“Goodnight, Ivarr,” he says.

**

They make Quartford before the moon even breaks the horizon the next night.

Ivarr doesn’t know why that disappoints him the way that it does.

The Bishop greets them—greets Ceolbert, Ivarr is no idiot, he knows exactly where he stands with these sniveling little men of God—with open arms. Open arms and sweaty palms. And sweaty temples. Ivarr finds him distasteful, immediately. It doesn’t help when the Bishop shifts his weight and wrings his hands when Ivarr asks about Rhodri’s whereabouts.

Annoying fucking little man. Cagey asshole.

“You aren’t going to kill him,” Ceolbert tells Ivarr, point blank, later that night. They’ve been given tents on the edge of the town. Or rather Ceolbert has been given a tent, a lavish bed of hay, a bearskin rug. A little wooden table already laden with missives. Ivarr picks idly at the seal of one. “Ivarr,” Ceolbert says, something brushing almost close to authority in his tone. “Tell me you can handle this?”

“You think I can’t?”

“No. I think you can. We need this peace. We need it all to settle. Peacefully.”

“You need the peace. Your father. Not me.”

“Ubba needs it.”

“Why not just say who you mean? The Raven Clan needs peace. Eivor needs it.”

“You need to sharpen that dagger,” Ceolbert says, brows arched downward. Mouth a taut little line of pink. “It has lost its edge, I fear.”

And so has Ivarr if Ceolbert can say something so bold directly to his face. Ivarr pushes up straight from where he had been leaning, hip cocked against the desk. He pushes up into Ceolbert’s space. Chest to chest.

Ceolbert doesn’t back down from the threat of it, the threat of Ivarr. He tilts his chin, jaw clenching. His eyes are blue, blue, blue. Like the scales of the fish he so loves to catch, flinty and glinting in the low light of the tent.

He isn’t scared.

Maybe it was never a lie.

His gaze drops to Ivarr’s lips, and he licks his own like it isn’t the world’s most blatant invitation. He seems to realize it too, after a second his eyes rip hastily back to meet Ivarr’s. His cheeks are pink. It only slightly ruins the challenge he had been trying so hard to present.

“Caught you staring, little king,” Ivarr says and Ceolbert’s eyelids flutter shut. Those golden lashes of his sweep so delicately against the ridge of his cheek. Ivarr wants to push his fingers against the skin, rake his nails down it.

Ruin something beautiful.

He touches his fingers to Ceolbert’s jaw, traces beneath his chin to press his palm to the soft expanse of Ceolbert’s throat. Just the lightest touch at first, hardly any pressure at all. His hand fits perfectly, snug right over Ceolbert’s trembling pulse and it would be easy—so, so, very easy—to squeeze and squeeze until there was nothing left. To shatter Ceolbert like he would shatter the panes of colored glass in one of the Saxon churches.

He could take pleasure in it.

Ceolbert’s breath hitches, his lips twitch. But he doesn’t pull away and he doesn’t reach a hand up to brace against Ivarr’s wrist. He just hangs there, breathing and staring. Completely trusting. At Ivarr’s mercy.

Doesn’t the boy know—shouldn’t he know—that Ivarr has no mercy?

It isn’t right, this reaction shouldn’t be for him. It isn’t Ivarr that Ceolbert is supposed to want. Isn’t Ivarr he should be looking up to with soft uncanny wonder.

And yet he is.

He sways forward, pushes his head into Ivarr’s shoulder.

And all the Gods damn him, he says, “Please.”

“I don’t know what you want.”

“It’s obvious.”

Ivarr cracks a smile, traces his fingers liquid quick along the back of Ceolbert’s neck, teasing at his hairline before darting away again. He settles his grip along Ceolbert’s hip, not a safe harbor exactly, but safer. “If it were so obvious, it shouldn’t be so hard to say.”

“I don’t know how to do this. You’ve the experience.”

“I am much older than you,” Ivarr says.

“I don’t think that bothers me.”

“Father figures,” Ivarr says, nodding sagely. It earns him the heel of Ceolbert’s hand, shoved sharply against his teeth. A glancing blow, Ivarr bites down before Ceolbert can pull away, he revels in the tremor that trips down Ceolbert’s spine at the pressure.

“Please, don’t—it’s not that either. I just—,” Ceolbert’s fingers curl, catching on Ivarr’s scar, tracing his nail against the ruined skin. “I can’t stop-stop thinking. About you. When I—,”

“Fuck your own fist? When you shoot off early like a little frightened rabbit?”

“You said that I should learn to enjoy it.” Ceolbert’s knees press inward, dragging against Ivarr’s thighs. “I’ve always learned best by doing,” he says.

“I’m sure I could ask Leofrith all about that, huh?”

“I never...never did this with him.”

“Doesn’t mean you didn’t want to. Doesn’t mean he didn’t. I’m not your Leofrith, not your Eivor. I’m not a very good teacher.”

“I don’t care.”

Straight into the fire, right into the fray. If any of the lessons Ceolbert has learned can be attributed to Ivarr, it’s probably that. The tossing aside of any self preservation. The total disregard for the logic in it.

Ceolbert doesn’t know how to kiss. It’s painfully apparent when Ivarr crashes their lips together, when he drags his tongue over the soft hurt pink of Ceolbert’s mouth. Ceolbert inhales, a little shock of sound, surprise maybe, caught off guard.

This is what he had asked for, but that doesn’t mean he was ready for it.

Ivarr manhandles them over to the bed, shoves Ceolbert down onto it. “Strip,” he says. “Everything off for me, little Aetheling.”

**

The air in the tent is muggy, too hot. Ivarr licks the sweat from Ceolbert’s neck, salty and clean tasting. All that youth, slipping through his pores. His hands have surely dug bruises into Ivarr’s shoulders by now, fingers clamped down hard to avoid slipping against the damp skin.

It only took a little coaxing to get Ceolbert spread across his lap, thighs stretched wide around Ivarr’s hips. The young man is malleable like wax, dripped scalding from a candle. Ivarr is drunk with it, drunk off it, off the taste of Ceolbert’s sweat and the feel of his untested skin beneath Ivarr’s hands.

Ceolbert would give him everything, if he asked. Ivarr doesn’t know why, can’t figure the path that really got them here, but it’s hard to give a shit when Ceolbert is alive in his hands. Eager for it, pleading.

He could fuck his thighs. Ceolbert might even like that, might sob and groan and come and fucking thank him. But Ivarr has always been sort of greedy. And the way Ceolbert twitches against him, filling his grip so easily, cock rising wet and red from his neat little bush of pubes, it makes Ivarr feel fucking insatiable.

“You want me to show you where men put it,” Ivarr asks, voice dragging over what can only really be called a growl. “How us heathens do it?”

Ceolbert’s mouth is pink and swollen and Ivarr would bet good silver his ass is the same. Pouting and furled and pink, pink, pink. He grips the cheeks, squeezes and kneads them between his fingers. “Answer me,” Ivarr says.

“Yes! Ivarr—p—,”

“Yeah, come on, baby. Say it.”

“Please.”

“Yeah that’s it.”

“Please, please, please.”

It’s good. It’s better than the ghost of Ceolbert’s voice that keeps rattling around in Ivarr’s head. This time it’s for him. Only for him.

Ivarr slicks his fingers through the mess at the slit of Ceolbert’s dick. Wet like a woman would be, leaking all over. It won’t really be enough, but it’ll do. Ceolbert will feel it, in the morning when this madness has passed, tomorrow all day whenever he rides, whenever he sits.

The thought is not displeasing.

He pushes a finger against Ceolbert’s ass, teasing at the skin, at the clench of his entrance. “Relax,” he breathes into Ceolbert’s ear, grazing his teeth against the heated flesh. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” And then when Ceolbert does, “Yes, my little king. There you go.”

He is used to being rough with lovers, but Ceolbert shakes and breathes Ivarr’s name in a hitched little gasp and that’s pretty okay. Ivarr presses his finger in, slicked with Ceolbert’s own spend, and Ceolbert bites a cry into the skin of Ivarr’s throat and shoots off against Ivarr’s stomach, and that’s okay too.

Ivarr glances down at the sticky splash of ejaculate dripping down his abs, dripping down Ceolbert’s dick. So much of it. Messy and wet. His cheeks are wet too, eyelashes clumped together, lips red. Sweat on his temples, making his hair fluff.

“Don’t,” Ceolbert says, voice pitched, a harsh little whisper. “Don’t you dare say anything, Ivarr.”

“What would I say, little king?”

His dick is still hard, seems impossible yet the evidence is there; it twitches a little when Ivarr wraps his hand around it. Ceolbert flinches, presses his forehead hard, hard into Ivarr’s collarbone.

“Should I keep going,” Ivarr asks. Like he’s reasonable. Like he’s responsible. His own cock aches, neglected.

Ceolbert nods. Clears his throat as he lifts his head and nods again. “Yes,” he says. “Please.”

Please, please, please.

**

There are bloody little half-moons ripped into Ivarr’s shoulder when they’re done. Skin under Ceolbert’s nails. Ivarr licks the blood away, sucks it from Ceolbert’s fingers.

“You’re a menace,” Ceolbert says. His fingers resting on Ivarr’s chin; he makes no attempt to move them or reclaim them.

Ivarr smiles. His tongue tastes like copper, bloodstains on the teeth. Menacing is a word for it.

“Better than your dream Eivor, huh?”

Ceolbert rolls his eyes. “Not even a little bit,” he lies. Ivarr recognizes the lie. He rolls himself back over top of Ceolbert anyway, braces his weight on his arms to cage Ceolbert in against the bed.

They don’t speak of Eivor for the rest of the night.

**

When the Wolf-Kissed does finally show up, hair shorn short, shoulders slumped, ragged and dogged and tired; Ivarr wonders if he can see it. Can tell what has occurred in his absence. The subtle shifts in the balances. He wonders if Eivor cares. Really cares.

Ceolbert means something to him, that much is sure. Ceolbert means something to all of them, Ivarr and Eivor and Ubba and Deorlaf. He is important to each and every one of them.

But only Ivarr gets to see him flushed and panting. Trembling with pleasure. Only Ivarr gets to break him. He’s selfish like that.

The peace talks go to shit. Ivarr isn’t surprised. There’s a lot of yelling, and finger pointing and if anyone had bothered to ask, Ivarr would have told every one of them, “I told you so”. No one asks and he tells them anyway.

Ceolbert is one of the first to leave the church, head hung down between his slumped shoulders. Ivarr goes to follow when a hand catches him around the wrist. A grip like iron, steady and sure even with the slick blood all over Ivarr’s arms.

“You should be more careful,” Eivor hisses. Pushed up into Ivarr’s face. His fingers are bloody from pickpocketing the dead Gwriad.

Fucking hypocrite.

“I should be?”

“The boy looks up to you. He idolizes you. You should be setting a better example,” Eivor says.

Fucking hypocrite.

**

Ivarr snaps awake to the feeling of a hand on his chest. The light touch of fingers dragging over his sternum, tickling the hair that grows right in the center. He grabs the wrist, digs his fingers in, hard enough the bones creak, the hand twitches.

Ceolbert’s breath catches unsteady over an inhale, a shocked little wound. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t think you’d—I thought you were sleeping.”

“I was,” Ivarr says. He hasn’t let go. His fingers encircle the whole of Ceolbert’s wrist like it nothing. Ceolbert’s hand wiggles again, twisting in Ivarr’s hair, but Ceolbert does not try to pull away. “Light sleeper.”

“You snores could wake the dead; I don’t know if I’d call that light.”

“Just shows what you don’t know about subterfuge.”

“Another lesson for me. Along with barn burning. Very subtle.”

“Killing them was better anyway. Dead Britons don’t weigh on my conscience. Dead Britons can’t stick a knife in your back.”

The corner of Ceolbert’s mouth quirks. His shoulders move. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says.

Ivarr thinks about pushing him away, a momentary, fluttering second of rationality. Ivarr watches Ceolbert’s face until the good reasoning of the thought loses its shine. He releases Ceolbert’s arm from his grip, but he doesn’t shove him off.

Slowly, gently, Ceolbert resumes tracing the pattern, following the ink printed in the valley of Ivarr’s pecs. It’s not—Ivarr’s had enough lovers, he understands the fascination with his skin, with the cut of his body. This is not that. This feels bigger, something fragile and unsure.

“Looking for a weak spot,” Ivarr asks. His voice is rough, grating from down in his throat. It shatters some of the tension, he doesn’t know whether to mourn loss or not.

“Did they hurt,” Ceolbert asks. His thumb follows a dip, pushes the hair against the grain, smoothes it back. Follows another whorl, repeats and repeats.

“No. Not really. You’d probably cry though.”

“You’re not impressed with me yet?”

“If you’re looking for praise, I’m not the man to—,”

“I know.” The fingers roam, endless. Over and over. “Do they mean something?”

“Yeah. To someone.”

Ceolbert smiles. His fingers drop lower, across a nipple and down the peak of his pec to run across the script over his ribs. Tracing the runes there, his nails pricking at the skin. He isn’t subtle, the way he shifts his weight up onto his knees, tugs the furs lower, swings a thigh across Ivarr’s hips.

None of it is subtle. A house on fire, straw roof ablaze and Ceolbert backed by the harsh glittering light of it.

Who needs fucking subtle? Honestly?

“You want me to fuck you, little King? For real this time?” Ivarr shifts his hips up, grinds himself against Ceolbert’s ass. He’s not quite there yet, not quite hard, but it won’t take long. Not with the way Ceolbert’s exploratory touches have gotten more bold, the spread of his hand against Ivarr’s belly. The weight of his palm, the rough brush of his callouses. They’re still softer than Ivarr’s, but they’re getting there too.

“Think you can take the whole thing, hm,” Ivarr asks. Low and goading.

Ceolbert flushes, pushes his weight back to meet Ivarr’s teasing. “Maybe. I want to try.” And then, softer, like he’s uncertain. “Do you want to? Want me to?”

“Christ, gods, yeah, little Aetheling.”

Ceolbert scrambles off of him. Strips down in a breathless, clumsy tumble. Ivarr is uncharacteristically distracted by his skinny arms, his thin chest with just the barest smattering of hair. Like the down of a rabbit, a baby fawn. Something defenseless that Ceolbert has long since proven himself not to be. He is capable in battle, he sure-headed, he is learning.

He is going to be a good leader. Despite Ivarr’s influence.

Despite this.

“Come on,” Ivarr says. “Come here.”

Ceolbert comes, climbs back across Ivarr’s lap. All warm weight, all soft, soft hair. Watching him take two fingers—shuddering and contracting as he opens to the intrusion, moaning against Ivarr’s throat—is a thrill. He’s strung tight like a bowstring, coiled round and round, so responsive when plucked.

Too quickly maybe, Ivarr works another finger in, spit rolling down his knuckles. Sweat slick in the cleft of Ceolbert’s ass. Ivarr screws his fingers deep; it’s a little too dry, the friction dragging as fucks them in, in. Ivarr leans back, gropes blindly in the furs for the small vial of oil he’d traded for.

“Gonna use you so good, little king,” he says, voice grating out, more a growl than anything else. He gets his fingers coated, more oil than necessary probably, messy, dripping.

“Yes,” Ceolbert says. “Please, Ivarr.”

Ivarr slicks himself in a rush, hissing filth to the skin of Ceolbert’s throat. Promises, threats, he doesn’t know, isn’t sure. Ceolbert’s body is hot like a fever and Ivarr feels light headed with it. He lines up, flexes his hips to drag his cock through the mess wetting Ceolbert’s hole. He means it as a tease, but there’s only the faintest hint of resistance before Ivarr is sidling in. Easy as a blade through skin.

“Oh fuck,” Ivarr groans.

Ceolbert is panting, soft and pleading. His thighs twitch, the fine hairs glint golden against his marble pale skin. His lips and cheeks are pink, flushed bright. His mouth moves. A intake of breath and a small shiver of words.

Ivarr pushes the flat of his palms against Ceolbert’s ass, lifting him slightly, letting him drop back down. He does it again, and a third time before Ceolbert comes. Not even a hand on his dick, just his cock jumping, shooting its load across Ivarr’s abs.

Ivarr is amazed. He thinks maybe he won’t ever fail to amazed by how fucking responsive Ceolbert is, how sensitive, how easy. Watching Ceolbert roll onto his knees, weight braced on his forearms, may not ever get old. His wet dick hanging smooth and pink and spent between his thighs but he’s still asking for it, begging. His hole twitches under Ivarr’s gaze, gaping just a little from the stretch.

“You can,” Ceolbert says, his voice unsteady, catching. He shuffles in the furs, arching his back. “It’s easier like this, isn’t it? For you to finish.”

“It’s not going to feel good,” Ivarr says. Ceolbert makes a face, mouth scrunching downward. “I mean for you,” Ivarr clarifies. “You’ve gotta be sensitive, huh? Sore.”

“Not really. Not badly. Please, Ivarr. Like this.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

Ivarr rolls over, there was never any real fight in him anyway. He places a hand on Ceolbert’s lower back, presses down until Ceolbert positions himself lower. Chest rubbing into the furs, ass up higher, presenting. He looks fucking good.

Ivarr’s mouth is dry. His tongue scrapes audibly across his teeth. His dick is harder than it had been earlier. Anticipation boiling in his gut, cutting into the edge of his arousal.

“Here we go then,” he says. More to himself then to Ceolbert, but the younger man moans a little at the warning and that’s nice in its own way. “Yeah,” Ivarr says. He lines up, he shoves his way back inside. Ceolbert’s body opens to him, only a second of resistance, still all fucked out and loose. “Yeah,” he says again, nonsensical, just muttered little affirmations when Ceolbert clenches, hisses, trying to make it good for him.

“Just like that,” Ivarr says, establishing a rhythm. Pounding in, dragging out. He’s got his hands on Ceolbert’s hips, pulling him back into every thrust, using his hole just the way he had promised he would.

There’s almost no way it feels good and Ivarr, honestly, isn’t worried overly much that it does. He snaps his hips, driving his cock deep, deep. He watches the tremors in Ceolbert’s skin, the muscles along his spine flexing as he attempts to meet Ivarr’s pace.

“That’s a good boy,” Ivarr says. He shifts Ceolbert in his grip. His palms are sweating, slipping on Ceolbert’s hips. The slide becomes messy, precome and oil dripping out, drilled out from the relentless in in in of Ivarr fucking the boy.

It spills down over Ceolbert’s taint, his balls. Drips from his dick and down into the furs. Adding to the mess there. He’s leaking again, oh the folly of youth, his cock bounces on every one of Ivarr’s thrusts, swings heavily below his balls. Ivarr grabs it, wraps his fingers around the warm wet girth of it.

“Amazing,” he breathes. Because it is. He was young once, cock hard over the littlest things, greedy with it. To know that Ceolbert, beneath the piety and the awkwardness and that stiff Christian coldness, is just as desperate for it, is a heady rush.

“Ivarr,” Ceolbert says. Whines. Saying Ivarr’s name in that Saxon accent of his, all screwed up and soft on the first syllable. “Ivarr, Ivarr.”

It gets Ivarr, better than he would ever admit. His orgasm takes him in a dizzying rush, sloshes over him and away with a deep inward thrust. It leaves him shaking above Ceolbert. Gripping his waist so hard there will be bruises in the shapes of his fingers there for days.

Ivarr rides the aftershocks of it, hips twitching, hitching against the give of Ceolbert’s ass. More bruises there too, dug into the cheeks.

Ceolbert is going to feel it in the morning.

**

And he does, if the stiff way he rides out to meet with Deorlaf is anything to go by. The way he flinches a little in his saddle. He doesn’t say anything though, doesn’t complain. They pass a stream and Ceolbert turns to Ivarr with a grin that doesn’t read discomfort at all and he says, “Can we? There are eels here.”

Ivarr rolls his eyes but of course they stop. Eivor produces his own rope, weighted and crusted with salt, some of the twine discolored, bleached from the sun. Ivarr doesn’t join them. He settles himself a ways away and pretends that he isn’t watching them. Tells himself that he isn’t.

Which is a lie. But Ivarr wishes it wasn’t.

The low murmur of their conversation only just drifts to where Ivarr is. The cloying end of summer air smothers everything, presses close and tight. Eivor’s fingers slip around Ceolbert’s wrist, tug and pull until Ceolbert turns toward him. And then his hand travels up to Ceolbert’s face, tilting his head. Baring his throat.

“Did someone hurt you,” Eivor asks.

Ceolbert swallows. Ivarr can see it from here. Can see the way Ceolbert’s eyes dart over to where Ivarr is standing and then dart away. His mouth moves, but Ivarr cannot hear his answer.

He can’t hear anything over the blood rushing through his head, pounding in his ears. A battle cry that makes him want to rip and tear and smash. Makes him want to find some soft little Englishman and pull their blood-soaked guts out.

He turns on his heel.

He leaves the soft, stupid peace-lovers to their fishing.

He isn’t sulking. Not even a little bit.

The heat breaks, all once, as Ivarr makes it back to the Dane camp. Lightning on the horizon, the ominous rumbling of thunder. Ivarr wouldn’t consider himself any more superstitious than any other Viking but he knows an obvious sign when he sees one.

He goes to Ceolbert’s tent. He sits on Ceolbert’s bed.

He is not sulking. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. But whatever it is, it’s isn’t like him.

**

Ceolbert finds him later. He’s flushed and pink. Dripping wet from the sudden storm. He smiles, wide and white when he finds Ivarr in the tent. Absolutely beaming. Victorious. “They’ve agreed to meet,” Ceolbert says, he sounds breathless, like he ran all the way back here. “Lady Angharad. Eivor. Me.” He pauses. He licks his lip. “You,” he adds.

“Eivor made his stance on that pretty clear.”

“It’s a good thing Eivor isn’t the one with the final say. I took his words under advisement but he is wrong about you.”

“You don’t know shit. Rhodri will not let you know peace. He will not give up without bloodshed.”

“You’ve had your bloodshed. Or did killing his brother not count?”

“A drop in the bucket of what is due.”

“Well maybe what’s due will just go owed.”

“Easy for you to say when you’re getting everything you wanted. Peace. A kingdom. Someone to fuck you.”

“God requires sacrifice,” Ceolbert says. “It’s what he asks of us. And this is...this is mine. When my duties require that I...that I give this up, I will.”

“Very noble of you.”

“You’re not listening. You are the—,” he stops himself. He bites his tongue. Ivarr can see the way he pauses, reorganizes his thoughts, says instead, “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. This is the-the happiest I’ve ever been. And I will give it to God, when it is time to. I’ll give it all up and I’ll never look back.”

“And you want me to do the same? With my destiny. You want me to just throw it behind me? That it, little king? Just that? Would you not have me shred my pride with it?”

“Yes,” Ceolbert says. “It’s what I’m asking you to do.”

“I can’t.”

“You won’t.”

“I won’t,” Ivarr agrees.

Ceolbert frowns. He shifts his weight, from foot to foot. His hands still stink of eel, the cuffs of his trousers still soaked with river water. His hair is still wet from the rain outside, plastered flat to his head. At that moment he is somehow both younger and older than he actually is. Wise beyond measure, innocent like glass. A man who is becoming a fine leader right before Ivarr’s very eyes, and kid who forgot to put his fucking hood up when the weather turned.

Ivarr doesn’t like the way it makes him feel. The tensing in his gut that he has no control over, the fluttering in his chest. He would rip it out, if he could, tear it free with the edge of his axe. Hack it loose and leave it to rot.

“Just tell Eivor to kill me. Or are you too scared I’ll win that fight.”

“I don’t want you dead, Ivarr.”

“So you do favor his odds.”

“He fights differently now. He isn’t the same man from Repton. Isn’t the same one who let Leofrith live. I think fighting would destroy you both and I don’t want that.”

“But you’ll walk away, when duty calls? You expect me to believe you care so much but you’ll give it all up for nothing?”

“I will,” Ceolbert says. His lips tremble. His hands curl to fists at his sides.

“You are a liar.”

“I wish I could hate enough to watch you destroy yourself over this,” Ceolbert says. “I wish I could tell him to kill you.”

But he is a liar. They both are.

They do fuck. It isn’t gentle.

Ivarr doesn’t particularly give a shit if the soldiers outside can hear them, but Ceolbert seems to care about it. Pushes his own fingers into his mouth to muffle the cries. Biting down on his own arm when Ivarr flips him to his stomach and takes him from behind.

It’s annoying, for some reason, flickers some little jealousy to life in the back of Ivarr’s brain. He tugs Ceolbert up by the hips, gets him kneeling, slows his thrusts to a drag, not able to go as fast at this new angle, but getting deeper. Claiming further.

His hand clutches Ceolbert’s pec, squeezing his pebbled nipple between two calloused knuckles. He can feel the trembling of Ceolbert’s heart, the echoing call of it shaking up through the young man’s skin. Loudest between his ribs, rattling and rattling.

**

They lay together in the aftermath. Ceolbert’s skin no longer smells so strongly of fish. Ivarr traces his thumb along the sharp ridges of Ceolbert’s knuckles.

There is a bruise on the outside of Ceolbert’s arm, just above the elbow. Ivarr wears a matching one halfway down his throat, vicious little points of teeth. Ceolbert reaches out and touches it, gentle, like an apology. He brushes his finger across the indents.

He says, “I know what I—what I’ve asked of you. I know how big it is. I do.”

“Ceolbert, you don’t—,”

“And I’m sorry. But I wouldn’t ask it if I...if I could think of another way. I need this peace and I need you with me and I don’t—I don’t know how to pick between the two.”

People, they aren’t at all surprising.

Ivarr tips his head back, stares up at the tent, the heavy canvas, the pattering rain against it. Just a drizzle that will beat itself out in an hour or so.

“Could you say something?”

“What would you like me to say, little Prince? You said it yourself, we do things for-for whoever. For family. Things we maybe wouldn’t.”

“Do you mean that?”

Ivarr doesn’t answer. He keeps his hands cupped beneath his head and he listens to the rain and he counts the tallies that he has long since lost the true meaning of. It’s one more strike to him, or maybe it’s one more strike to Ceolbert. The weights and measures of the lies they’ve both told, finally slip sliding into a free fall.

“I thought we could go hunting,” Ceolbert says. “If you...If you’d like that.”

“Hunting?”

Ceolbert nods, rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one arm. The downy hair across his chest glints golden in the flickering candlelight. “The men were saying there’s boar, up in the hills. We could go, just the two of us, bring one back. A celebration of our great victory.”

He swallows. His throat trembles, just a little. Ivarr presses his thumb into the hollow below Ceolbert’s Adam’s apple, simply because he can. He can feel the little tremors in the skin, the flickering, flutter of Ceolbert’s pulse.

“Just the two of us,” Ivarr repeats.

“It’s our peace. I couldn’t have forged it without you.”

A lie. Sparkling and pretty like the colored shards of glass in the window of a church. A harmless lie.

“I could hunt,” Ivarr says. “Maybe it would brighten my mood, hm?”

Ceolbert smiles, the grin teases at the corners of his mouth, his cheeks go pink. He buys the lie so easily, so readily. He believes the lie so easy. There is no fight to it, no screaming, no curses.

He doesn’t yell, later, after, either. His blood is as warm as Ivarr had known it would be, spurting out across Ivarr’s knuckles, drenching him to the wrists. Ceolbert doesn’t yell, his breath leaves him in sort of a scrabbling little exhale. A hitch of sound that could be Ivarr’s name.

His fingers grab at Ivarr’s shoulder, clench tight. His head lolls forward, his fingers twist, a dance of death, shaking and scratching. Ivarr’s lips brush against his forehead, Ivarr pushes the knife in deeper.

“I’m sorry,” Ivarr says.

And it isn’t a lie.

**Author's Note:**

> Why’d Ubi have to do me like this?


End file.
